


Spoiled

by chucksauce



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Daddy Kink, M/M, PWP, Plot What Plot, Porn Without Plot, Rough Sex, just good old-fashioned bumpin' and grindin', no age play tho
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-02
Updated: 2017-02-02
Packaged: 2018-09-21 14:12:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 598
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9552407
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chucksauce/pseuds/chucksauce
Summary: John gives Sherlock everything he needs. Sherlock gives John exactly what he wants.





	

**Author's Note:**

> So here's an unrelated one-shot while I put the finishing touches on the next AWU chapter... 
> 
> Just a bit of pwp. This one kind of happened after a particular bit of soul-searching over on tumblr one night, wherein the phrases 'Martin Freeman' and 'Daddy AF' were discussed in relation with one another. This thing has been sitting in my draft folder for like a month, at least.
> 
> So um, yeah. *laughs nervously*

The bedroom door creaks, the handle knocking abruptly against the wall behind. Sherlock’s back presses firmly against it from shoulder to hip where John has pinned him there. Heavy breaths, panting and huffing, fill the silence between the soft smack of skin against skin.

Sherlock shifts, pressing the balance into his shoulders so he can tighten his legs around John’s waist, can rock against him. He lets his head drop back against the door with a thunk, eyes screwed shut tight. The noise he makes would be nothing short of embarrassing if this weren’t John, and more specifically, the glans of John’s fat cock gliding over his prostate just the way Sherlock likes it.

“You spoil me,” Sherlock manages at one point.

“Yeah?” John asks with a grunt, his fingertips sunk deeply enough into the soft flesh of Sherlock’s arse that he might leave bruises. He slides back, thrusts again, long and sure. “Who takes care of you?”

“You do.” Sherlock's voice catches. He can barely breathe. Breathing’s boring, it’s for people who don’t have John Watson, right here, just like this. “You take care of me.”

“Who gives you what you need?” John grunts, thrusting again, before leaning forward to growl his next words into the delicate skin of Sherlock’s neck. “Who gives you what. You. Want.”

Sherlock’s nails dig into John’s shoulders, and when he realises, he forces them to drift up, to wrap around the back of John’s neck or in sweat-damp hair at the nape.

“You do,” Sherlock moans.

“Then give me what I want, Sherlock.” John, cruel bastard that he is, stills, just keeps Sherlock pressed against the door, his cock filling Sherlock up. “You know what I want.”

God, but Sherlock doesn’t want to say it. It’s odd, it’s embarrassing. Sherlock only barely musters his voice, and that mainly because he very desperately needs John to keep fucking him. It was almost like John knew he was getting close, and did this on purpose.

He rolls his hips beseechingly, tugs John’s hair till he can press his lips to John’s neck.

“Fuck me, Daddy,” he whispers, cheeks flaming. “Please, Daddy.”

The noise John makes… Half whine, half grunt, he arches back and finds a new rhythm, frantic and sure to break plaster with the doorknob as he fucks into Sherlock with renewed fervor.

“Is that it?” John asks, his breath erratic, and Sherlock can tell he’s getting close; he can nearly hear the grind in John’s brain. “I think you can do better than that. I spoil you, don’t I? I take such good care of you like this.”

Sherlock’s back sticks to the door, sweat having sprung into slickness and cooled enough to catch against the varnished wood.

“Thank you, Daddy,” begins, and officially looses himself to it. He can’t be embarrassed, or even aware, really, with the way John is making him feel. “You spoil me. You give me everything I want.”

“That’s it,” John growls, his pace ruthless.

Sherlock can feel himself getting close. So damn close. He wants to tear his hair out in frustration.

“You’re so good to me, Daddy. Fuck me, please, give it to me–that’s perfect. Don’t stop, don’t stop–”

His pleas become a litany, a prayer, and that’s his tipping point–John does give him what he wants, until Sherlock’s vision whites out, his body goes rigid.

And John, satisfied, finishes with a few more erratic thrusts, his voice going high and broken.

Sherlock rides it out, his voice gentle and encouraging. “That’s it, come for me, Daddy. Give it all to me.”

**Author's Note:**

> I really enjoy making friends with strangers on the internet. Come by and say hi!
> 
>   * [**My Fandom Tumblr**](http://chucksauce.tumblr.com) for all manner of crying about fictional characters and laughing at shitposts
>   * **[My Fic Rec Blog](http://spoilersauce.tumblr.com)** , if you're into multifandom recs.
>   * **[Under-London](http://under-london.com/)** , the original serialized novel I'm working on for cheap-as-free!
>   * **[My Twitter](http://twitter.com/chucksauce221)** , where I basically live when I'm not writing...
> 



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